Sara Quinn Rivara
Single Motherhood Is My Superpower
I wish I could shoot light out of my hands. Light would fill me as water
fills a glass. I wouldn’t let men near. Summer evenings, I’d walk unafraid
through dark parking lots, stars bright as juneberries, the baby strapped
to my chest. A seedcoat of light would enfold him. I could fly if I hoped hard
enough, leap over the roof of the garage and the trash fire of my life. When
I sent my son with his father, I’d let light seep into his outstretched hands.
I don’t know if it was enough. He came home and peed the bed. He came
home and slept curled next to me. Who knows what will save us?
It might be vinegar. It might be violin lessons, or witchcraft, or alchemy.
Brake lights on a shitty truck in a gravel driveway. Or a child crying after midnight.
The glint of wet eyes in the darkness. With all I had, I knit a blanket of light. It
was not enough. Nothing is. I conjured us into existence. I had not forgotten
the ordinary basements of family court, fist-sized holes in the closet door,
how small a body can fold. Mine. His. I learned to mother us both. My rage
a prayer. I cannot love without terror. Light bursts from my clenched fists.
Everywhere, fires burn.
Sara Quinn Rivara is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Little Beast (Riot in Your Throat), a 2024 finalist for the Oregon Book Award. Her work has appeared recently in Calyx, Leon Literary, Colorado Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family.